‘Oh, yes. His mother told my wife, over the back garden fence, when she was cutting some roses for the house. She asked her if she might knock on our party wall if she felt nervous while her son was away. He certainly went away and, to the best of my belief, did not return at all.’

  ‘We suspected that he did not. Did Mrs Breydon-Waters remain indoors in the evenings?’

  ‘So far as I know, she never went out after she had had her tea, except into the garden. My wife told her that she was welcome to come and sit in our house during the evenings if she felt lonely, but she said that, as long as she knew she could knock on the wall, she would be all right alone.’

  ‘One more thing, Mr Pursey, if you will be so good. How soon after Mr Breydon-Waters’ death did Mr Streatley, whom you saw and heard at the inquest, begin his visits to Mrs Breydon-Waters for the purpose of studying Mr Breydon-Waters’ collection of antiquities?’

  But on this point Pursey was unable to commit himself.

  ‘All I know is that he must have called at least twice before I knew that he did visit her,’ he said. ‘I knew nothing about the collection of antiquities, either, until we saw it being loaded into Mr Streatley’s car. Mrs Breydon-Waters never mentioned the collection, and I don’t think I have spoken more than a dozen words to Oliver ever since they came to live here. He was a very self-sufficient, rather arrogant young man, and I was not prepared to be snubbed by him.’

  ‘Did you – I know this is a leading question, but I’m sure you won’t allow that to influence you – did you ever think that Mrs Breydon-Waters had suicidal tendencies?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. She was quite a cheerful sort of woman until Oliver’s tragic death, and, even then, she soon perked up.’

  ‘Yet she was not, in every respect, a well-balanced woman, surely?’

  ‘I did not know that. In what sense do you mean? She always appeared perfectly normal to me.’

  ‘You have never heard of her preoccupation with the spirit world?’

  ‘Oh, that! Many middle-aged and rather lonely women take an interest in the spirit world. I should call that perfectly natural, especially after Oliver was killed. She may have thought she could learn the name of his murderer.’

  ‘Did you ever hear rumours to the effect that there was some talk at the time of her son’s death which was directed against her?’

  ‘My wife would be far more likely to hear rumours of that sort than I should. I will call her.’

  He did so, and a small, plain woman with large grey eyes and a certain air of timidity came in. Dame Beatrice and she were introduced and Dame Beatrice repeated the question.

  ‘Talk against her?’ said Mrs Pursey. ‘I am quite sure I never heard any. Of course, we were all terribly shocked and upset when we heard that Oliver had been killed, and there was lots of head-wagging and gossip and speculation, as you’d naturally expect, but I’m sure there was nothing wicked or malicious, was there, Oswald?’

  ‘I heard nothing of the sort, my dear, but, as you do most of the shopping and go into Yarmouth on the bus, on Thursdays, with some of the other ladies, and are a member of the W.V.S., I think that if there had been any unpleasant talk it would have come your way.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t. Of course, we wondered how she would manage, as we understood that the son’s money was their biggest source of income, but I’m sure we were far too sorry to be horrid about her.’

  ‘Tell me about the visits of Mr Streatley, the man who bought Mr Breydon-Waters’ collection of antiquities.’

  ‘Well, there,’ said Mrs Pursey, with an arch smile, ‘I’m afraid we did rather speculate about matters, and there were quite a few of us who wondered whether perhaps he had come to – well, court her, you know, when he took away all that stuff and made her so grateful to him. It always seems to me a strange thing, but it’s true – you can read it in the papers in lots of these horrible murder cases – that some people seem to want to share in the notoriety and general fuss, and we could not help wondering whether Mr Streatley might be one of them.’

  ‘Did you know him by sight, or in any way at all, before he visited Mrs Breydon-Waters?’

  ‘I’d heard of him as a very wealthy man, because he used to bank with my husband before my husband retired, didn’t he, Oswald?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Pursey, ‘he did, but I saw so very little of him that I hardly recognised him when he came here. A servant used to do any business usually – cash any cheques and so forth – and, of course, it is some time since I retired.’

  ‘But you did see him sometimes, Oswald, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, when he came in to see the manager, but I had really forgotten what he looked like. I never did any business with him personally, you see.’

  ‘And now, Mrs Pursey, about the death of Mrs Breydon-Waters. Will you tell me everything you remember about it? Go back to the last visitor she had, so far as you know.’

  ‘The last visitor she had? Well, I suppose that would have been Mr Streatley, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Would it? Can you remember? This might be exceptionally important. Mr Streatley admitted in court that he had called on her that day, and your husband confirms that. Now, was there anybody else?’

  Mrs Pursey looked at her husband for help, but it was plain that he had none to give, for he merely shook his head and said that, so far as he knew, Streatley was the only one, except for the tradesmen.

  ‘Not even Oliver’s fiancée came that day, but I thought, all along, that she was very remiss,’ said Mrs Pursey. ‘Almost heartless, but I suppose she was terribly upset by what had happened to him.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. Mr Breydon-Waters was engaged to be married,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I heard about that. When did his fiancée pay her last visit?’

  The Purseys shook their heads.

  ‘Not since Oliver’s death. I don’t know whether she went to the funeral,’ said Mrs Pursey, ‘She certainly didn’t go to Mrs Breydon-Waters’ funeral, because Oswald and I went to that, and she certainly wasn’t there. I think I should have felt bound to go to his mother’s funeral if I had been engaged to him, but one never knows, nowadays, what people think is the right thing to do. I suppose that, once Oliver was dead, and in that awful way, she cut her connection with the family.’

  ‘She never came to see Mrs Breydon-Waters at all after the son’s death, do you mean? Never once?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. What do you say, Oswald?’

  ‘So far as I am aware, she did not come near her. It seems a little strange.’

  ‘As I say, I suppose the fact that it was murder put her off,’ said Mrs Pursey, ‘although if you had been murdered when I was engaged to you, dear…’

  Mr Pursey looked horrified and Dame Beatrice said,

  ‘Possibly her father advised her against attending, thinking that it might be too much for her. Now, Mrs Pursey, can you tell me anything more about Mrs Breydon-Waters between the time of her son’s death and her own?’

  ‘Nothing helpful, I’m afraid, Dame Beatrice. Do you mean – you can’t mean that her death was not accidental? I thought the verdict at the inquest really meant that it was all rather a puzzle, but must have been caused by her own act, even if it wasn’t suicide.’

  ‘You may be right, of course, but in view of the son’s death we are making a very thorough investigation.’

  ‘Of course. Very proper, I’m sure,’ said Pursey. ‘I am sorry that neither my wife nor I can be more helpful. I am afraid you have gained very little from your visit.’

  ‘Thank you both very much for your co-operation,’ said Dame Beatrice, rising to go. ‘If anything else should occur to you, however unimportant, I should be grateful if you would telephone either the Nodding police station or the Gauntlet hotel.’

  ‘Well, we drew a blank there all right,’ said Laura, when they were in the car.

  ‘Not entirely, child, I feel.’

  ‘I can’t see that we gained anything very concrete.’

  ‘No, impressions and atmosphere can hardly be called that.’ She would say no more.

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Trail of a Murderer

  * * *

  ‘But there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass that at length I began to be weary, and told her we must halt and retrace our steps.’

  Emily Brönte

  « ^ »

  WE’VE found the stones that were missing from Pigmy’s Ladder, ma’am,’ said the Superintendent, speaking over the telephone, ‘but I can’t see how it’s going to help us. He must have shifted them by lorry and we can check on that easily enough, but it’s a minor offence – even if it’s an offence at all – compared with two murders. If it’s whom we think, the trouble is that he’s an influential type who could make things very awkward for us if we put a foot wrong.’

  ‘Yes, I appreciate that. I suppose you will trace the lorry, though, in case something more should come of moving the stones. Someone else may have done it, you know – the accomplice, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t want to spend my men’s time on something that may not pay off, but I reckon we’d better just satisfy ourselves, although he probably did the job through one of the firms he’s got his money in, and, if that’s so, we may find it hard to get the people to talk. Might be more than the driver’s job’s worth to spill the beans.’

  ‘There’s nothing to learn from the stones themselves, then?’

  ‘Perhaps you care to come and look at them. They’re stacked in Jameson’s building yard, but he say he know nothing about them and I believe him.’

  ‘When did they arrive?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. Seem that have a whole lot of crazy paving stacked in the yard and until we go poking around he didn’t know he’d got these other stones.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Not that it’s very important. How about the other case?’

  ‘We haven’t traced the purchase of the salts of lemon. Could have been got anywhere. The gentleman we speak of have two cars and often go out in them. That don’t always take the chauffeur, either; quite often drive himself.’

  ‘What about Mrs Breydon-Waters’ neighbours? Can they say anything more about the particular visitor we are discussing? I got very little out of them myself.’

  ‘Keep themselves to themselves, and, apart from that, you won’t get Norfolk people to talk if they don’t intend to.’

  Dame Beatrice had one more person to contact for information. She met Vindella on his way to the nets for an after-school cricket practice, and, having obtained the headmaster’s consent to this manoeuvre, asked him for his friend Barney’s address. Barney, of the yachting-cap and the unquenchable thirst, lived in Wroxham within easy reach of his motor-cruiser, the Black-Eyed Sailor, and Dame Beatrice called at his bungalow early that same evening on the off-chance of finding him at home, for he was not on the telephone and so she could not contact him and propose a visit.

  She was fortunate enough to find him in. It was a beautiful and very warm evening and he was in a long chair in his back garden, a tankard of brown ale on a small table beside him, a pipe in his mouth and a terrier at his feet. His wife, who had answered the front-door bell, announced Dame Beatrice.

  ‘Hullo-allo-allo!’ boomed Barney, scrambling out of his chair and kicking the dog out of his way. ‘And to what am I indebted?’

  ‘The fact that you are almost my last hope, Mr Trundle,’ replied Dame Beatrice, who had obtained Barney’s surname from Vindella.

  ‘Fine, fine! Anything you wish.’ He picked up the tankard and took a refreshing draught. ‘Have this chair.’

  Mrs Trundle, a platinum blonde with a large bosom and slender hips, had brought another chair, however, and Dame Beatrice, preferring to sit upright, accepted this one.

  ‘Secrets?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘No idea, Petsy.’ He looked at Dame Beatrice before he resumed his semi-recumbent position. Dame Beatrice shook her head.

  ‘I shall be grateful for all the co-operation I can get,’ she said.

  ‘Hoick yourself a chair, then, Petsy,’ said the husband, making no attempt to perform this service for her, ‘and let’s get cracking. If it’s anything to do with boats, you’ve come to the right shop.’

  ‘It is to do with murder.’

  ‘Fine, fine! Atta-baby!’

  ‘You were acquainted with the late Mr Breydon-Waters?’

  ‘Bill to his buddies, of which he had precious few, I believe. I was acquainted with him, yes. I did not “do” him. Not on your nelly! No, no. Not guilty, me lud.’

  Dame Beatrice disregarded the negative assertions and confined herself to the one which was completely positive.

  ‘How many times did you see him after last Easter Monday?’

  ‘How many times?’ He scratched his head with the end of his pipe-stem. ‘Blest if I know. Petsy?’

  Mrs Trundle pursed a scarlet mouth.

  ‘Couldn’t possibly say, Barney. Half-a-dozen, at least. Perhaps a lot more. I wouldn’t notice. I didn’t like him much. Definitely not my type.’

  ‘Just as well for you, my girl,’ said Barney, with a manly guffaw. ‘Nobody comes playing around my little bit of extra homework!’

  ‘Oh, Barney!’ said Mrs Trundle, pouting and looking roguish. ‘The things you say!’

  Dame Beatrice returned to the point at issue.

  ‘Were these occasions at week-ends only?’

  ‘Come to think of it, no,’ said Trundle. ‘And that’s a bit odd when you do come to think of it. He was a poor bloody school-teacher, wasn’t he? Where would he get the time?’

  ‘There was the Whitsun holiday, I suppose,’ suggested Petsy.

  ‘Yes, that’s right enough, but I seem to remember seeing him after that.’

  Dame Beatrice said nothing. She waited while he searched his memory. His face cleared. At the same instant his wife exclaimed,

  ‘Of course! That night we thought somebody was pinching his cruiser, and it was him all the time!’

  ‘Just what I was thinking, old girl! A lovely moonlight night. We were coming home from the Red Lion, I remember. It was just on closing time, because we’d stayed to the bitter end – it was bitter I was drinking that night! – and watched the end of the darts match between old Tubby Mousehold’s team and the Holt’s Farm lads. It’s all coming back to me now. I bellowed out, “What the hell are you doing, moving that cruiser?” Bill Waters shoved his head up and said, “It’s quite all right, Barney, old son, it’s only me.” So I said, “Well, if you’re changing moorings, look out for yourself. You haven’t any lights.” He said, “Nobody can stop me changing my moorings after dark. This isn’t a hired craft.” And, with that, he backed away and turned the Beri-Beri to shoot the bridge. That’s right, Petsy, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Barney.’ Mrs Trundle turned to Dame Beatrice. ‘I’m a square if I can see how it helps, though.’

  ‘And you never saw him again?’

  ‘Never. The next thing we heard, he was dead.’

  It was, taken all in all, as much information as Dame Beatrice had expected to get.

  ‘Did you know that Mr Vindella had sold his half-share in the Beri-Beri?’ she asked. Husband and wife exchanged nods.

  ‘We thought they’d had a row,’ said Petsy, whose baptismal name Dame Beatrice was fated never to learn.

  ‘So it wasn’t a row,’ said Barney. ‘Just as well, considering what happened later. It would have looked more than a bit fishy for Vindella otherwise.’

  Dame Beatrice nodded.

  ‘I do not believe there was an overt breach,’ she said, ‘in terms of a verbal quarrel, but there was certainly some tension on the one side and some disapprobation on the other when the young woman who had been engaged to Mr Vindella transferred her affections to Mr Breydon-Waters.’

  ‘Well, she must have needed her head looked at,’ said Petsy, not mincing her words nor disguising her own disapprobation. ‘Terry Vindella is a man, but poor old Bill was just a rat.’

  ‘Come, now, don’t be hard on the poor bloke,’ said Barney. ‘People can’t help their physique.’ He emphasized his own by stretching his arms sideways and exhibiting a massive and hairy chest. ‘It sounds like a motive all right, though, if the girl gave old Terry the air.’

  ‘I don’t believe Terry would murder anybody,’ protested Mrs Trundle shrilly, ‘because of a girl. He might kill somebody in fair fight, but Bill wasn’t killed in fair fight.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as fair fight, old girl,’ said her husband. ‘All’s fair in love and war, you know.’

  ‘But this wasn’t love or war, Barney. It was just plain stupid murder. And I don’t dig murder, not if it was ever so.’

  ‘Dig?’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I wonder! Did you ever visit Grimes Graves, Mrs Trundle?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of them, Dame Beatrice.’

  ‘I’ll tell you who had heard of them,’ said Barney suddenly, ‘and that’s Crikey, who came with us on the Black-eyed Sailor to look at. Ludham Church. Remember, Petsy? Remember, Dame Beatrice?’

  ‘The name conveys nothing to me,’ Dame Beatrice confessed. ‘Have you her address?’

  ‘Not me! Daren’t keep an address book with the names and telephone numbers of fair ladies in it! Petsy may have that address, but not me.’

  ‘Buck Romeo!’ said his lady, giving him a playful slap. ‘As it happens, I do have it, and as I was going to ’phone her up, anyway, Dame Beatrice, to ask for a knitting-pattern back, you could help yourself to as much of the call as you liked. Let’s go, shall us?’

  They went into the bungalow together. Everything, as Dame Beatrice had noted already, was in apple-pie order and completely bare of books, although half-a-dozen glossy magazines were arranged neatly on an occasional table. The telephone was in the hall and was upholstered by the agency of a pink silk doll. Mrs Trundle removed this and rang up her friend.

  ‘And here’s somebody else who wants a tiny natter,’ she concluded. ‘You’ll remember Dame Beatrice, who followed us up towards Ludham the other Saturday? Well, she’s interested in Grimes Graves and things, and wants you to tell her a thing or two about them. Here she is.’

 

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